The Day the Jerk Started Falling (Jerk #2) Page 13

  And more than that, I’m not sure what or how to feel about it.

  Part of me is simply confused.

  Part of me is insanely curious.

  Part of me is still angry that my own damn company reached out to him for a comment on my very personal podcast, which, I realize is a bit hypocritical since I am the one who chose to do the damn thing in the first place, but still, couldn’t someone have fucking told me?

  And mostly, I can’t stop wondering, What in the hell did he have to say that would take ten fucking hours?

  “You need to listen to it,” Vanessa says, and I swear to God, I can see the smallest hint of sympathy in her eyes. But she quickly blinks it away, and her gaze goes back to hard-ass again. “And then, supply me with a comment of your thoughts.”

  Jesus H in a cherry tree.

  What in the hell is happening?

  I feel like I’m sleepwalking inside my own life, but I’m not even inside my body. I’m like watching myself from afar, trying to understand where I’m going or what I’m doing and why I keep managing to get myself into the craziest fucking situations.

  Our meeting ends a few minutes later, and I honestly don’t know how I manage to get back to my apartment, but I do.

  Somewhere along the line, I left Vanessa’s office and got on the subway, and now I’m here, inside my apartment, pacing the living room while my laptop is open to Scoop’s site and the first episode of Ollie’s podcast is just staring back at me, downright daring me to hit play.

  I should be packing.

  I should be calling Hazel and letting her know my trip itinerary before she gives herself an aneurysm.

  I should be doing a million things right now.

  But I’m not.

  I’m incapable of thinking about anything else but Ollie’s goddamn mystery podcast.

  What in the hell does he say in it?

  Does he finally tell the truth about him and Amelia?

  Before I know it, I’m picking up my phone and tapping out a text to Allie.

  Me: Ollie has a podcast??? Why didn’t you tell me this???

  Her response comes a minute later.

  Allie: I TRIED to tell you about it, but you’re pretty damn averse to talking about anything related to my brother. And in my defense, I’ve sent you an email with each new episode. Just FYI: You’ve yet to respond.

  Shit. She has a point. Every time she tries to broach the Ollie subject, I outright refuse to talk about it. And for the past week or so, I’ve pretty much ignored my emails. Once my podcast started to gain popularity, it just became too much to face head on.

  It feels like everyone is waiting for some kind of happy ending, and I just know I’m going to let them down.

  The idea of that kind of disappointment makes me feel like puking.

  Me: So…have you heard it?

  Allie: Yes. Well, most of it. I still need to listen to the last three episodes.

  Me: And…?

  Allie: Honestly, I think you need to hear it for yourself.

  Fuck. That only makes me more curious…

  I look at the screen of my computer again, and the urge to listen is strong. So strong, in fact, that I find my feet moving back toward my laptop, and my fingers itching to hit play. But just before I do, the buzzer to my apartment goes off like a goddamn bomb and startles me.

  I jump away from my coffee table like I’m about to commit a crime and the police show up, and I have to put a shaky hand to my chest just to calm myself down.

  Once I feel like my heart will stay put and not try to make a beeline for my throat, I head to the intercom.

  “Who is it?”

  “It’s FedEx. I’ve got a delivery for a Luciana Wright,” a male voice responds back, and I let him up.

  When a young guy wearing a blue polo shirt with FedEx embroidered across his chest arrives at my door, I open it and find him standing there with a cardboard package that is taller than the doorframe.

  “Holy moly. What is that?” I ask, and he just shrugs.

  “Not sure, but I need you to sign right here,” he instructs and holds out his tablet for my autograph.

  I sign. He carries the damn thing into my entryway and sets it up against the wall and offers a “Have a nice day” before he leaves.

  I snag a knife from the kitchen, lay the box on the ground, and slice the cardboard open with one long swipe down the center.

  And the instant I spot bright, beautiful, neon pink, my heart clogs my throat.

  The surfboard. The one Ollie had brought to the beach in Tahiti when he’d tried to teach me how to surf.

  And taped on top of it? A simple note.

  Lucky,

  Like my heart, this belongs with you.

  Love,

  Ollie

  Tears prick my eyes, and before I know it, I’m sobbing like a loon while I stare down at a fucking surfboard of all things.

  I have no idea what it means or what it doesn’t mean, but I know ten hours of my future are sealed.

  I have to listen to his podcast.

  Maybe, hopefully, it will give me some insight.

  Maybe it will help me understand why he sent me a goddamn surfboard?

  Maybe it will help me make sense of this fucking mess?

  I still need to pack.

  I still need to get ready for my flight to France in the morning.

  But those two very important things don’t feel all that important when I head to my laptop and push play…

  The sound of his voice echoes inside my living room, and more tears fill my eyes.

  Why am I so damn emotional over this?

  Because you miss him. Because you still love him.

  Fuck. This is hard. But I keep listening.

  “I’ve never been through the brutal torture of love.

  Until Lucky.”

  My heart starts pounding erratically inside my chest.

  “She’s an American bombshell and my sister’s best friend—a woman so wrong for

  me, it should be written in the waves.

  And she’s the reason we’re all here.”

  Oh. My. God.

  Only one minute in and I’m riveted.

  * * *

  Ollie

  Deep breath.

  Heavy sigh.

  Hacking cough as I choke on an exhale.

  Constricting, agonizing pain in my lungs.

  Never in my life have I concentrated so hard on the simple task of breathing. It’s one of those things that’s always come naturally—even when other surfers were choking on salt water and fighting for the surface.

  But I’ve never been the guy with his heart on the line.

  And today, tomorrow—for the rest of my life—I’m hoping to be just that.

  I want to be the dopey guy with the lovesick smile, holding some god-awful bloody purse while my hot sheila shops for fuck knows what. I want to be the pathetic puppy, missing his wife when my brood of blokes finally convinces me to go out for a night on the town without her. I want to be the guy who checks his phone for messages from his wife throughout the day and answers her call on the first bloody ring every time he sees her name. I want to be the guy who teases his wife about her ridiculous fucking outfit daily and gets away with it. Because it’s so fucking obvious how beautiful she is by the look in his eyes that he can get away with practically anything.

  And I want…no, I need to be the lucky fuck who takes Lucky to bed and wakes up beside her in the morning.

  The very real possibility that I might not get the chance to be any of those things?

  Terrifying.

  The jetway from my plane into Charles de Gaulle airport bounces under my timid feet, and the handle of the very real-sized, actual carry-on bag I have with me for the first time ever feels foreign in my hand.

  I wouldn’t say the days of rucksack-styled clothing are gone for good, but I’ve certainly taken a different approach for this particular trip.

  Because as special as my o
verworn cargo shorts are to me, they’re not exactly a favorite of the fashionable woman I’m trying to woo.

  My steps slow as I near the end of the tunnel, weary of what I’ll find at the mouth of the metal river, and I do one last pep talk to prepare myself for the inevitable.

  Yes, Ollie, this is bound to be a shitshow, but it’s entirely your fault.

  Okay, so…not a great start, but I know I can do better.

  There will probably be a lecherous crowd eager for both your success and your heartbreak, but you’ve dealt with the spotlight before. Hell, you’ve even been castrated in the spotlight before, for your faux relationship with Amelia.

  Wow, buddy, you might want to turn this around.

  Aside from the whole being in love and ripe for absolute devastation thing, you’ve been through this before. You can deal with it now.

  Probably time to end the pep talk…

  So, anyway…do it.

  By the time I reach the end of the hall, I’m clearer than ever before on one thing: I’ve no business being a motivational speaker.

  But by some miracle, my mediocrity does the psychological trick, and before I know it, I’m stepping out into the wide open of Paris’s busiest airport without event.

  There aren’t any crowds waiting to swarm me with interview questions or insults, and to the best I can tell, all is…well, normal.

  I smile.

  No one cares about me, and this is possibly the best day of my life.

  Energy renewed, I pick up my pace on the journey to baggage claim and public transport, knowing I have a dozen and a half items to check off my to-do list for my one and only shot at romance.

  There are flowers to get, arrangements to be made, and there, in the bag I’ve never wheeled anywhere in my thirty-seven years, is a suit just waiting to be tailored.

  My phone rings in my pocket as I’m navigating the down escalator, and I have to juggle to free a hand to answer.

  Every intention of screening the call goes straight to hell, though, as my grip on the handle of my bag slips and it hits me in the back of the knees like a bowling ball.

  It’s everything I can do to stay on my feet and avoid taking out the three innocent people in front of me.

  “Hello?” I answer briskly, propping the device between my shoulder and my ear and grimacing when the people on the upward bound escalator next to mine stare at me.

  “G’day, Romeo,” the voice on the other end of the line says, teasing. My eyebrows pinch together as I try to reconcile the tone with the voice I know to be my brother Evan.

  “I’m sorry,” I say finally, failing at understanding this style of greeting from him. “You must have the wrong number.”

  “No, Oll,” he says with a laugh. Who in the bloody hell is this guy? “It’s Ev.”

  “Yeah, I got that part,” I confirm. “It’s the fact that you sound happy to talk to me that’s confusing.”

  He laughs again, and I have to step aside at the bottom of the escalator to concentrate on my bewilderment fully while staying the hell out of everyone else’s busy way.

  “I heard the podcast. You know, the one where you reveal yourself as a pathetic bloke just like the rest of us. Even heard your melodramatic thoughts about our family’s take on you.”

  “You heard the podcast?” I ask dumbly, knowing I couldn’t have heard him right.

  I mean… How did he even know about it? I certainly didn’t tell him.

  I didn’t tell anyone.

  Frankly, as far as I was concerned, every person over the intended audience of one was a tally mark too bloody many.

  “Oh yeah. Zoe rang me and Riley. Hell, even Mum and Dad got a call from her. I actually think she’s quite enjoying being able to torture you by spreading your vulnerability.”

  “Great,” I grumble. “I’ll have to add firing her onto my to-do list.”

  Evan laughs, and admittedly, my chest squeezes. As much as I hate that this turn has come at my expense, it feels genuinely good to hear his amusement, rather than disappointment, on the other end of the line.

  I honestly can’t remember the last time we had a conversation that didn’t involve him being pissed at me for something.

  It feels like it’s been years. Maybe even an entire bloody decade.

  “Right.” Evan chuckles into the receiver. “No way you have a fucking to-do list, and no way you’ll ever fire that woman. She does all the blimey work for you.”

  Fair point, well made. I shrug. “All right. But I can give her an arse-chewing about being Australia’s one-woman gossip source.”

  “Ah, mate. I’m pretty sure her reach extends far past Oz. I know for a fact she spoke to Allie yesterday. Getting the details of your restaurant blowout, as it were.”

  “Hmm,” I hum. “Seems my list of people to cut out is growing.”

  He laughs again then. “Ah, well. As long as I’m not at the top for once, I’m happy about that.”

  I roll my eyes and glance at my watch to confirm exactly how much time I’ve wasted.

  Two minutes and fifty-three seconds.

  “Listen, as touching as I find our new bond and everything, I’ve got heaps to do. Was there a point to your call?”

  “So, you’re in Paris already, then?” he asks with a smile in his voice. “It’s really happening. I almost can’t believe it.”

  “Right, then. Bye, Ev—”

  “Wait, wait!” he calls through a chuckle. “For real. I just want to say good luck, mate. And that I’m proud of you.”

  “Proud of me?” I laugh. “For making a fool of myself?”

  “No,” he says. “For making something of yourself.”

  There’s a silent moment on the line as we both consider what he’s just said.

  “We’ve never hated your path, Oll. We just wanted to be a little part of it. Hopefully this pistol of a sheila makes sure you visit the fam every once in a while. And hopefully you bring little sis with ya.”

  I struggle slightly against the emotional turmoil in my stomach and manage a small laugh to cover it up. “There’s a chance she’ll say no, you know. That the end of all this won’t come with Lucky at all.”

  “No, Oll,” he says confidently. “There’s not. You were real with her on that podcast…real with all of us. You’ll get your happy ending.”

  I swallow a thick knot of saliva and nod even though he can’t see me. “I hope so.”

  “Go get ’em, tiger.” He smiles again, I can hear it in the lilt of his voice, and as a result, I can’t help but form one of my own.

  With a day and a half to get everything I’ve got planned done, I don’t have any choice.

  Let’s just hope, by some miracle, luck—and Lucky—are on my side.

  * * *

  Ollie

  The first flash hits me right in the eyeballs when I look up at the bottom of the second escalator, the one that feeds directly into the baggage claim area, and takes me off guard.

  Spots dance in my vision, and I put a hand up and over my eyes as my most natural line of defense when what have to be a hundred more bursts of light go off and a roaring wall of questions and shouts hits me like a wave.

  Well, fuck.

  It seems, perhaps, I was a little wrong about no one caring about me.

  People care. A whole hoard of fucking people apparently cares. They just don’t care enough to spend any money clearing security when they can wait down here for free.

  “Ollie!” a reporter yells as I step hesitantly toward the crowd and do my best to paste some version of a smile on my face. I’m not real keen on attention on any scale, but I much prefer to keep it positive. The last thing I need is Lucky catching wind of how bad it is and deciding not to come just to avoid the whole circus. “Have you spoken with Lucky? Do you know if she’s coming?”

  Fuck, I hope she’s coming.

  “Over here, Ollie!” another yells. “How’s it feel to be vulnerable? What if she doesn’t show up?”

  God. T
hanks, guys. This is fucking great, I think to myself as one paparazzo after another hurls out the possibility of heartbreak as their main investigative dig.

  I push past the bulk of them, but they trail after me as I make my way to the outside doors and head for the taxi line.

  Strangers stare as the relentless group keeps yelling at me, and a couple of fame-happy tourists smile manically and crowd me to get themselves in the pictures.

  I take out my phone and scroll down to Zoe’s number, knowing I’m going to need some help from someone who isn’t…well, me…if I’m going to make it through this fucking hot mess I’ve created for myself.

  I have dozens of errands to run. How the fuck am I going to do that if I run into this kind of thing all over the city?

  Briefly considering the consequences of calling her within earshot of any of these people, I decide on a text and type one out as quickly as I can.

  Me: HELP. I’ve just landed in Paris, and there’s a bloody herd of reporters! I’ll call you when I get in the taxi, but please, for the love of Christ, come up with a plan. I might even forgive you for running your big mouth all over the globe if you do this for me.

  I can practically see her smirking as her response comes through fairly quickly.

  Zoe: Who says I want your forgiveness? I’m quite enjoying watching you suffer.

  Me: Zoeee…please. I need your help. I’m admitting that. In text. In a context you can screenshot and show all of your mates, for God’s sake. Just bloody help me.

  Zoe: Ugh. Fine. Call me when you’re in the cab. And for fuck’s sake, DON’T say anything to the reporters.

  Me: Thank you. I love you.

  Zoe: GROSS. Jesus. Look at you. Just oozing your love all over every fucking person in your vicinity now.